Читать книгу Point of Honor - Robert N. Macomber - Страница 10

The Stream

The St. James was entering upon one of those glorious days that Wake loved in this part of the world. He had never seen anything like it sailing the North Atlantic off the New England coast. There the sea’s beauty derived from a terrible majesty, but here it was the intermingling of the clear and delicate water colors with the soft forms of the islands and reefs that lent a beauty that could not be described adequately in letters back home to his parents in Massachusetts.

St. James was east of the Tortugas Islands, sailing directly into a rising sun on a close reach with the trade winds sending a gentle, but steady, flow of air from the south southeast. She had almost all of her wardrobe showing as the sails took in the wind provided and pulled her forward through the emerald seas around her. It was one of those mornings that makes a man thankful to be exactly where he is, and Wake took in a lungful of the clean warm air, stretching his lanky frame to its furthest extent. The feel of the sun and wind on his face, combined with the smells of the galley and the salt air, made him feel alive. The toes of his bare feet flexed on the smooth wood of the deck and his fingers wrapped around the tarred main shrouds that rose up to the mast cap high above. Wake felt all of his senses heightened, reveling in them as he looked around to see what was what since he had gone off watch eight hours earlier.

His survey of the decks this morning took in McDougall, the gunner’s mate, and his party cleaning the bore on one of the twelve-pounder deck guns. McDougall was a quiet and serious man, of more years than anyone else aboard, who knew his business with cannons. His graying hair and low growling voice showed his authority far more than any insignia of rank. He had sailed in all the seas of the world and would occasionally tell of things he had seen and done, especially on the Anti-Slavery Patrol in the forties, inspiring silent reflection in all who heard. McDougall and Rork, both Catholic Irishmen, were the two senior petty officers aboard and the solid pillars around which the rest of the crew formed.

Farther forward, Beech, the spindly framed cook, was emerging from the foredeck hatch with a pot of coal ash cleaned out from the galley fire below, preparing to toss it leeward. He nodded to his captain as he made his way across the heeling deck.

Wake was glad that he had Beech. The man was a decent cook who made the provisions they were issued actually edible, unlike most of his counterparts in the navy. More importantly, he made the fish, crab, and lobster they caught aboard while patrolling taste absolutely delicious, the stuff of fine dining establishments, which is exactly where Beech used to work in New York City before joining the navy in an effort to avoid dying in the mud somewhere in Virginia or Tennessee for some intangible Union cause.

Wake still remembered the all-night poker game at the Rum and Randy Tavern, a rather jaded establishment on Turner Lane in Key West, where he had won Beech from the lieutenant commanding the ordnance ship stationed in the harbor. As the game neared dawn, the other remaining man at the table had exhausted anything of value to bet with. He finally said that he had a cook aboard his ship who had been a chef up in a New York dining room. The final bet of the game was the cook’s assignment versus Wake’s case of Cuban rum and forty-two dollars, which itself had belonged to the ordnance ship captain at the beginning of the evening. Wake smiled at the memory of Beech reporting aboard the following day. The cook had not been happy at all about his new assignment on a small schooner, nor the method of his transfer to her, that took him away from the comforts of Key West.

Wake turned his view to the after deck of the ship, where four seamen were rubbing the deck spotless with holystones near the port main shrouds. Patient explanations of how to steer a “small” course were being made to a new seaman at the helm by Faber, the bosun’s mate. Faber was something of an unknown quantity to Wake, having just shipped aboard three weeks earlier. Somewhere around twenty-four or so, with a face that looked perpetually pained, Faber had so far shown the competence of an experienced seaman if not the leadership of a veteran petty officer. He had made bosun’s mate a month before reporting aboard and had last served on a steam gunboat in Tampa Bay. Serving aboard a schooner in the Florida Keys was certainly quite different.

All of this activity and invigorating atmosphere reminded Wake that he had not yet had anything to eat. As he descended to his cabin for a bite of breakfast, he saw Rork coming aft on the main deck and motioned for him to follow below. Wake wanted to go over the provisions with him.

Seated at the small chart table in the commander’s cabin both men started at the grouper fish, potatoes, and gravy laid out by Beech. Wake, fork in hand, was the first to speak.

“Rork, wher’re we at on the provisions? Especially water.”

“Aye, Captain, we’re down to six o’ the small casks, plus the wee one in the schooner’s boat, o’ course. Other provisions are still good. Not sure how many, but I’m sure that we have at least ten o’ the salt pork left, and as many o’ the biscuit. Fruit, o’ course, is gone. A wee bit o’ the beer left. Water’s the thing, sir.”

Wake didn’t like that. They had used up too much water already. But in the heat of the tropic summer, the men had to consume more water or die.

“All right, it looks as though we’d better put in at the squadron for more water. How are those casks doing? Are we losing some through leakage?”

“Aye, sir. Some, but not as bad as we’ve had before. I just looked at the six o’ the little devils still full. Nary a drop around ’em leakin’.”

“Right then, back to Key West. Weather should hold.”

“Captain, with this lovely little wind she’ll do nicely. Key West by the morrow’s night perhaps, I’m a thinkin’. A bit o’ a beat upwind if the wind goes back to the east, but she’ll point high enough if we’re behind the reefs in the calmer water.”

With this decision made, Wake returned to what was left of the meal before him, swilling down a mug of coffee and then wondering how much water was used to make it. If the weather changed for the worse, or the wind died, all hands would be put on short rations by tomorrow morning. Six small casks of water for twenty-five men would not last long.

***

Sunset in this part of the ocean was always an event. As they roared along eastward, heeled over and beating upwind in long tacks toward Key West, the men of the St. James stopped in their work to admire the free display of God’s artistry spread out on the horizon behind them. Wake never halted this practice, for he believed that enjoying the tranquillity of a tropical sunset was one of the few benefits available to men subjugated to the disciplines and dangers of naval service.

This was one of the memorable ones. There were just enough cottony trade wind clouds to provide a moving canvas for pastel colors to be projected upon, and the luminescent glow of the sun as it slid downward made the waters to the west dance like glittering jewelry. Even the toughest of the men appreciated this demonstration of beauty and appeared to be pondering inward thoughts as they swayed with the movements of the ship and gazed far off into the receding light.

Wake always wondered what they were thinking, but no one ever talked during the last few minutes of a sunset. It was as if each owned a part of it, possibly the only thing of beauty he had ever owned, and it was an unspoken taboo to disturb his communion with the sun’s last moments.

Close to the horizon, golden hues were giving way to bright rose and faded pink, while at the zenith above, the colors were turning from darker royal blue and greenish-gray into violet-black. On the upper eastern arc of the sky the first, and brightest, stars were starting to glimmer in the early night void. Only two or three initially, then more as the blackness spread. Almost touching the bowsprit forward, the moon, seemingly twice as big as when seen from land, started to erupt from the sea, a faded spot of orange tinged with yellow. It was as if the watch had changed in the heavens, the sun going below decks and the moon coming on duty, smiling hello to its companions on the deck of the schooner. It was one of those moments sailors remember forever. When they’d grown old in some dreary place, wondering where their course in life had led them, this sunset would appear in their mind and remind them of the wondrous sights of the world they had once seen.

And then the surreal beauty of the cosmos around them changed in a stark instant.

“Sail ho!” The lookout aloft cried out and pointed to the southeast.

“Schooner to the east, hull down. Wing an’ wing downwind, sharp on the wind’ard bow!”

Wake shook himself from his reverie and looked over to Rork standing at the transom. The bosun nodded, and turned his attention aloft to the lookout.

“Has she altered course, son?”

The surprised reply came immediately. “Aye, she has, Bosun! She’s done a flyin’ jibe an’ goin’ on a port broad reach, a bit more southerly now! She ain’t that old army supply schooner, neither. She’s new to me. Looks to me like she spotted us an’ turned tail.”

Rork looked back at Wake, the two minds ruminating the same questions. Do they chase? For how long? What about the water? St. James was close hauled on a port tack. The chase could take a while. Rork knew better than to say it aloud. It was not his decision. It was the captain’s. Wake saw them all watching him.

“Bear off, Bosun Rork! Bear off and after her. She’s probably up to no good, and we’ll have to see.”

“Aye, sir. All hands to your sail stations. Faber, I want her turned off the wind smoother than a baby’s coo. You take the helm. Stand by the sheets, lads! No time to lose, we’ve got to close her so’s we can catch her in the moonlight. ’Twill be a glorious chase, this one, me lads!”

By the time the moon had ascended fully up above the eastern horizon, St. James had borne away from the wind and was crashing along to the south on an intersecting course for the unknown schooner. Both were moving fast, and the distance between them rapidly diminished from seven miles, to five miles, to maybe three. The moonlight cast a silver tint over everything as it rose higher in the sky. Depth perception in the off-light suffered as the men of the St. James tried to gauge whether they were still gaining in the chase.

The lookout aloft, now one of the younger sailors with better eyesight since Wake was taking no chances in the night, yelled out his observation.

“Deck there, she’s turnin’ more southerly!”

“Follow her around, Faber.” Wake was busy trying to gauge the point of interception, now made more difficult by the course change. St. James was now reaching, still on a port tack, with the suspect vessel ahead and to windward of her.

Rork had arrived at the same conclusion.

“Cuba. She’s trying to get to Cuban waters, sir. Thank God she didn’t go north into Quicksand Shoals. Be the devil to follow her through those at night.”

“Yes, Rork, I’m thinking the same. And we need to stay right on her through the night. I want the big fisherman stays’l sent up. We’re too far away from her. We’ve got to speed up.”

“Aye, sir. We’ll put it on and see how she’ll take it.”

“And Rork, all hands are on short water rations as of right now.”

Wake regarded Rork’s expression and laughed. He spoke loudly for the crew’s benefit.

“And just imagine how much prize money that schooner will bring!”

“Aye, me Captain! Enough quid for me whole family to cross ta’ America an’ live like the nobles they should be! Short water now, an’ rich bastards later, sir!”

The men around them were grinning, for they had all been quietly adding up their own share from the future sale of the strange schooner at the Admiralty Court in Key West.

St. James, like a beautiful thoroughbred doing precisely what she was created for, kept up her race to the south into the deep waters of the Straits of Florida—and away from the pleasures of Key West.

***

The night should have seemed long, but the intensity of the chase and the constant evaluations of St. James’s speed made the watches go quickly. The wind backed to the east and held. The moon took its time to cross the sky, allowing the men of the St. James to watch their prey edge slightly to windward with each roll of the sea. Gradually, they changed position to windward until they were behind the mystery ship, keeping in her wake throughout the night.

Near the end of the last watch White, who was the petty officer of the deck, noticed that seas were changing. Though the wind was the same—from the east at a strong breeze—the waves started to get higher and steep sided.

It was a sure sign of their location. The schooner had entered the largest river in the world: the Gulf Stream. It stretched from North America to Europe and was deeper, longer, and wider than any other flow of water on earth. Misunderstood and feared for centuries, it was only recently that seamen had measured its current and temperature. Matthew Fontaine Maury, originally of the United States Navy, lately in the Confederate States Navy, had been one of the first to study the Stream and its effects upon ships and the sea. Such concepts were far from the minds of the watch on deck; all they knew or cared was that the schooner was no longer riding over the seas. Now she was fighting them.

St. James was no longer surging along, with water sluicing past the leeward starboard gunwale. The ship was now crashing into each wave and slowing with each collision. Both the pursuer and the prey were having the same difficulty, and the question soon became which one of them would shorten sail in order to reduce the strain on the hull and rig.

Rork and Wake conferred at the stern while holding onto the taut main sheet as the deck bucked beneath them. Wake raised his arm and gestured out over the crazed sea. He yelled above the sounds of the complaining wood and canvas.

“It’s the Stream!”

Rork’s face showed he didn’t understand.

“I said, it’s the Stream, Rork. We’re in the Gulf Stream!”

The bosun nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “It kicked up fast, sir. How much longer, do ye reckon?”

“It’s the opposing wind against the current. As long as the wind’s easterly it’ll stay this way. All the way to Cuba, or near to it!”

“She’ll not take this much longer, sir. The big stays’l ’ll have to come down. Look at the masts jerkin’ with each sea!”

Rork’s point was valid. The masts were jerking and grating at the deck. Sounds of wood creaking from the spars and hull were getting louder. The lookout aloft had long since been ordered down as the mast tops were whipsawing around wildly.

Two hours until dawn. The chess game of the chase had gotten more difficult with the added dimension of fatigue on ship and men. Wake had to hold on to the main backstay to keep upright. He looked again at the big fisherman stays’l bellying out from the fore and main masts and solidly full of the wind. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Bosun, take that stays’l down!”

“Aye, sir. They’ll have to shorten too, sir.”

The crew turned out on deck with all hands working to douse the ungainly stays’l. Bringing it down to the deck in some sort of organized effort failed when most of the enraged and wild canvas escaped over the lee side and dragged in the water. Now soaked, torn, and twice as heavy, it fought all attempts to get it aboard for half an hour, until they finally managed to manhandle the sail onto the deck. A dozen men lay collapsed upon it, heaving their breaths while they passed furling lashings around it.

Wake went to the foredeck and watched the suspect ship until dawn. She had not shortened sail, and her motion was apparent even in the moonlight from this distance. St. James had calmed down a bit, and was not as violent or rapid in her bucking through the waves. But the other schooner was fighting the wind and the seas every foot of the way. Wake didn’t know how she kept her spars in her, but it soon was obvious that her over-canvassed masts were not pulling her away from the pursuing naval vessel. Wake leaned on the sampson post, holding on as his schooner plunged through the seas. He stared at the other ship, willing himself into the mind of her captain. Peering across three miles of moonlit water, for hours he watched every move of the other, trying to glean some clue as to who she was and what she was up to. One thing was certain; her commander was competent and strong willed. He would not surrender until the very last minute.

***

Dawn flooded the sky with a depressing gray light that diffused the silvery shades of the moonlight and made observation of the lead ship more difficult. The moon was faded but still overlooking the scene when the sun reappeared, coming up from the horizon and making the main and fore sails stand out in golden contrast to the dark gray western background. All hands on watch, except the helmsman, crowded the foredeck to see if anything had changed with their rival.

She was still there. A little closer even, but still not close enough.

Old McDougall even deigned to come forward and look at the ship he might be called upon to destroy. He stayed for just a moment, gazed at the other vessel in his noncommittal way, and returned amidship to his guns.

As he passed by Wake he muttered his opinion without stopping. “In this sea, Captain, a quarter mile with solid shot should put ’em in the mind to heave to. Be a bitch ta’ board though. God be with the bastards who have to do that.”

Wake smiled, amazed that McDougall had just said exactly what he had been thinking. There could be no boarding in this sea. They would both have to sail to calmer water for that. And there was no calm water around, except for some bays on the forbidden coast of Cuba.

As if on cue, the lookout standing in the foreshrouds just off the deck said, “Believe that’s land over yonder, boys. Yep, land ho, dead ahead!”

“Dammit, Hutch, make a proper report to the petty officer of the deck!” Rork’s voice took everyone, including Wake, aback. Hutch, the lookout, duly chastened, repeated his information in the prescribed manner to Faber, who had the deck watch. Rork sat down next to his captain.

“Cuba and them Spaniards, sir. Wonder what she’ll do now.”

“Time will tell. I may break this off if the wind doesn’t ease. We’re getting pretty far to leeward from Key West. I’ll decide at noon.”

“Aye, noon it is, sir.”

***

By noon the day was bright and the sea had laid down a bit. Both schooners were still sailing to the south, and the mountains of Cuba were clearly visible. He knew distances at sea were deceiving, but Wake thought they would be in Spanish territorial waters by sunset. The distance between the two ships had narrowed to a mile. Within gunshot for a twelve-pounder but not accurate range in those sea conditions. Since daylight had arrived St. James had been flying her ensign but the mystery ship had no colors showing.

Rork stood at the leeward rail, leaving the windward to his captain as custom dictated. The decision had to be made, and made then. And only one man aboard could make it. Wake crossed the deck to the low side.

“Rork, we stay on the chase. Serve the beer until it runs out. Then cut the water rations in half again and serve that. Put the beer and the water in the pantry locker and secure it. There’s room in there for it, right?”

“We’ll move some of the salt pork barrels out and put the beer an’ water in there, sir. “

“Very well. And set the big stays’l again once it’s repaired.”

“Aye, sir.”

Wake studied his second in command.

“You’re uncommonly silent, Rork. Why?”

“Well, Captain, I’m thinkin’ this here is a uncommon situation, sir. This could go well for us all, or bad for us all. Either way, we’re all in it, sir.”

Wake nodded agreement and descended into his dark den of privacy. He was exhausted. Lying down on his bunk for just a moment’s rest slid him into a sleep that occupied four hours.

“Deck there! A big lugger is coming out of that bay ahead!”

The sound of the lookout’s report startled Wake’s dreaming mind and he sat bolt upright, almost cracking his head on the beam above. By the time he had reached the main deck, most of the crew on watch was staring off to the south, pointing at a two-masted triangular-sailed vessel standing out to sea, straight at St. James and the other ship. The Cuban coast was only three or four miles away. Abruptly, a spot of color appeared in the after rigging of the new vessel: the gold and white colors of the empire of Spain. The lugger was naval, and she was now steering directly for the schooner ahead of St. James.

With a determined countenance, Rork shook his head and turned to his captain, who had just come up to the foredeck.

“Captain, I’ll be a sheepherder in Bantry if it don’t look like the dago navy will be protecting our friend there. Probably escort them into harbor so’s us yanks don’t violate the precious sanctity of Spain’s waters! Won’t have her afore she reaches their protection. More’s the pity too, sir. Me relatives in Eire would’ve loved it here. Luck o’ the ever bleedin’ Irish.”

Wake, who usually tried not to show great emotion in front of the crew, believing it lessened the trust they had to have in him, gave in to his frustration.

“Damn, Rork, I think you’re right. She’ll just make it. Damn it all. Make ready to come about. We’ll just head home the minute they come up to her.”

But Rork was not right. The fleeing schooner did not rush into the protecting arms of the Spanish Navy. Instead, moments after the lugger had shown her official colors, the mystery schooner bore off to the west and put her sails out wing and wing again. St. James was close enough now, less than a mile, that Wake could look through his glass and see figures on the fleeing ship setting more sail.

“By Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I’ll not fathom that move, Captain!”

“I don’t either, Rork, but let’s follow her around and bear off the wind. And get everything aloft that will catch air! Maybe we won’t turn around after all.”

Now a puff of smoke showed from the Spaniard and the dull pop of a cannon shot came across the water. A splash erupted two hundred yards behind the other schooner.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch! ’Tis the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, sir! The dagos are goin’ after her.”

“Now I’ve absolutely got to see what’s aboard her, Rork. This is getting very interesting.”

With all hands in the evolution, St. James’s crew completed a very dangerous jibe and brought all sail wing and wing. Every sail aboard was sent up and spread out on either side of the ship as the chase continued to the west with the wind from astern. She rolled to her beams but stayed under the control of the men, for now it took two at the helm. Everyone in the crew was excited as they watched the other ships, pondering the reasons for the actions of the lugger. Wake stared at the Spaniard, waiting for a shot to come his way. But none were fired toward the American naval vessel. Only the mystery ship was a target of the Spanish—three more times.

Their course was now along the Cuban coast, heading for Mexico. This far inshore there was a westerly countercurrent of the Stream that assisted all three vessels in their progress. The two schooners slowly outfooted the lugger, and by sunset she was a distant third place in the bizarre race. Wake went down to the table in his cabin and pulled what charts he had for this area. The drawer held only small-scale general charts with no details of harbors and bays.

The lack of decent charts reinforced the irrefutable fact that he was taking a huge chance. He was leaving his patrol area. His ship was short of water. They were obviously involved in some sort of situation with the Spanish Navy and heading along the coast of a foreign power. Hopefully, and from what Wake could tell, probably, they were outside the territorial waters of Spain. But what exactly was the situation?

Had Spain declared war against the Confederate States while St. James was away from Key West? But the other vessel flew no colors. Or did the Spanish know that schooner and have some other reason for trying to capture or destroy her? Wake knew in his gut that the schooner ahead of them was no run-of-the-mill blockade runner. Something was different about her, and he had sensed it from the beginning. The competency of the captain and crew in complicated maneuvers, the determination to carry sail in rough seas, the veering off from the Cuban coast—it all added up to something important, but Wake couldn’t deduce what. He did decide that it was important enough to risk the lives of his crew by running extremely low on the water supply. They were going to continue west and capture that ship and the men upon her, wherever they fled.

***

At the western end of Cuba stood a notorious cape called Cabo San Antonio. Beyond it, across the 150-mile wide Yucatan Channel, lay the coast of Mexico. That much Wake knew from charts and other naval officers. He had heard that the channel was home to a ferocious current moving north between the two coastlines, as well as a southeast wind that came up unimpeded five hundred miles from the South American mainland. But he had never sailed this far west along Cuba and knew he was going fast into a dangerous confrontation blind. The young ship commander thought about the variables of their situation, and how his superiors would later view his decisions, as the schooner raced through the night on the heels of the ship ahead. The range between them had closed to half a mile, the faded moonlight of the last watch making it seem a bit more.

In the light of a swaying lantern in his cabin he and Rork were studying the skimpy chart of the area. Wake stabbed the chart with a finger and looked at his bosun.

“I place us here, ten miles from Antonio and off the Colorados Labyrinth Islands, by best guess.”

Rork stabbed his own finger at a notation on the chart.

“I agree, sir. On deck in the moonlight a minute ago I thought I saw that last island on the chart there. O’ course, I been wrong afore. An’ I don’t want to make the acquaintance of those reefs!”

“Well, I think we’re both right on this. Just wish it would calm down enough for a decent sight with the octant. I hate dead reckoning in this strange area. I don’t know the currents here.”

“Captain, it looks like she might be headin’ for goin’ round Cuba. Maybe makin’ for Jamaica. Or maybe Mexico. Our water won’t last near long enough for that, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

A larger than usual wave thudded into the quarter of the ship right by Wake’s back, and he lurched across the table as the hull dropped away.

“Yes, I know that. We’ll turn if we can’t get her by the morrow’s night. We’ve got to get her though. There is something going on here. We must get her, Rork.”

“Can we go into a Cuban port for provisions an’ water?”

“Only certain ones. None around this part of the coast. We’d probably be taken into custody.”

“Jesus above! The luck o’ the Irish is holdin’ for this crew. The devil is laughin’ tonight.”

“Now that the beer’s gone, how much water’s left?”

“Four of the small ones, sir. One was drunk today, and the boat’s cask is still there an’ full.”

“Four small casks for twenty-five men, and we’re two or three days from Key West. It’s going to be very close. Damn. “

Wake looked at Rork’s eyes and suddenly felt much older than his twenty-five years. Then he remembered the date: the 25th day of June. It was his twenty-sixth birthday. He did not tell Rork.

***

The Gulf Stream hit them again. The genesis for that mighty river started here where the currents of the Caribbean were compressed between Cuba and Mexico and shot out into the Gulf of Mexico and the Straits of Florida. Cabo San Antonio got its reputation from sailors who quickly found themselves in extremely dangerous conditions after they left the lee of Cuba. Antonio was the last protection they had from the current and wind roaring up from the Caribbean. Just after dawn the men of the St. James followed their mystery ship out beyond the cape. The Spanish lugger was nowhere in sight.

Fortunately the wind and current were both from the southeast as they roared around the cape. That meant that they did not have the same mountainous seas from the opposing wind they had faced in the Straits of Florida. But it did mean that while they were sailing fast, steering to the south by west, they were actually being carried off by an unknown amount to the north and west. Wake was finally able to get a sun sight at noon. Rork went down to the captain’s cabin to see the results of the calculations that would show where they were.

The discussion at the chart table, as Wake completed his mathematics off the celestial tables, centered around the current’s direction and strength. That Antonio was still apparently close off their port quarter did not bode well. The current must be very strong. The enemy must now either tack and sail back toward Cuba in order to go eventually to Jamaica, or continue southwesterly and end up in Mexico.

Mexico . . .

Rork didn’t quite understand the implications of that destination, so Wake explained the rather dire connotation of the word. He explained that he hoped that they would not sail to Mexico. A more perilous international location could not be found in this part of the world. The Mexicans were currently fighting against French Imperial forces in some of the remote areas of the country, the central region having already been under French control for two years. In July of ’62, a puppet Mexican government had voluntarily given up its sovereignty and declared in favor of Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph, a brother of the emperor of Austria and a subordinate of Emperor Napoleon III of France. However, the newly appointed emperor of Mexico was not doing an effective job of pacifying the country he ruled, even with substantial French military support.

Wake told Rork he had read in the Key West newspaper that Maximilian, as he was known to the world, had finally landed in Mexico with his wife Carlotta a month earlier. He had decided to run his empire in Mexico from that place and legitimize his claim to the new monarchy. Meanwhile, the Mexican patriot Juarez continued to fight on in the northern mountains. The Monroe Doctrine against foreign invasion of the Western Hemisphere sounded magnificent, but in the reality of the Civil War the Americans knew they did not have the strength to eject the Imperial French forces and looked the other way in humiliation. Wake remembered that in the fall of 1863 there had even been some speculation among the officers at the Russell Hotel that the French navy might take pre-emptive action against the lone outpost of Key West, which sat astride their lines of communication to Mexico. Rork recalled the petty officers wondering the same thing at their tavern in Key West, the Anchor Inn. Thankfully, that scare had passed without event.

And if all this wasn’t enough, the Mexicans themselves were not especially enamored of Americans since the war eighteen years earlier, which had resulted in a Yankee invasion of their capital and the annexation of over half their country into the United States. Wake didn’t know all of the nuances of the political climate in Mexico, but he knew enough to be very concerned. Rork nodded pensively as he thought about the weight on his captain’s shoulders.

They discussed the possibility of the mystery ship going into Mexican, now considered French, territorial waters. What could the St. James do? The French were supportive of the Confederacy since it drained the U.S. Navy away from confronting them. Would Wake run afoul of a French Navy warship? Even if he did not, might there be a diplomatic protest against a U.S. Navy ship in French waters? Rork knew the protest might take a while to get back to Key West, but when it did it would not be pleasant for Wake to endure. Hot pursuit would not apply, since they did not have evidence at this time that the ship was their enemy, even though no one on St. James doubted it at this point.

Whatever the eventual outcome, they were only a short distance from the coast of the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, and the decision would have to come quickly. Wake resolved to settle the question of this obvious enemy vessel then and there, and let the powers in Washington deal with the consequences later. After all, he was in a desolate stretch of the Caribbean now and pretty much on his own. Wake said that for some reason he could not cipher, this chase had seemed personal from the beginning, a sentiment that Rork echoed.

***

The long discussion of currents and winds and political whims gave way to the mathematical establishment of their position, or as close as a celestial sight on a pitching deck and a somewhat trustworthy chronometer would allow. Wake fixed their location as approximately twenty miles southwest of Cabo San Antonio, steering south and sailing at over seven knots an hour. He estimated the current at almost five knots. He further estimated that the time for a tack to the east, in order to beat upwind to Jamaica, would occur in about ten hours. They would continue to follow the suspect vessel. Rork grimly agreed and departed the cabin to exercise the crew at weapons drill one more time, more to occupy their minds and keep them from thinking about the water supply than to improve their skills.

Rork placed McDougall in charge of this drill. The gunner’s mate wasted no time in pleasantries, quickly lining up on deck amidships the off watch as well as half those on watch. Each had a cutlass and pistol in a belt or rope around his waist and a musket in his hand. McDougall decided that they may as well fire five rounds from each of the firearms in the direction of the schooner ahead. There was little possibility of a hit, but it would definitely improve morale.

As each man fired his pistol and long gun, the latter in rapid reloaded succession, a cheer went up from the others. They had started the cruise with enough ammunition for thirty rounds apiece of musket ball and twenty for each of the pistols. The ten rounds the sailors got to fire focused their attention on the enemy and its future capture and sale. Like a tonic, it made smiles appear and humor return among the men of the St. James. Wake couldn’t help but smile also, especially when he thought of the reaction to all of this aboard the ship ahead.

The sunset that evening, the fourth of the chase, brought the men back to melancholy thoughts. On a ship as small as St. James, the whole crew was aware of the consequences of their situation, which became the topic of subdued conversation before the mast as much as in the cabins aft. Each of them knew that the ultimate factor was not whether they would or could capture the other schooner, it was if the water would last until a port could be found. They also knew that they were somewhere far outside their patrol area and were going into a situation none of them could predict or control.

As if mocking them, the sun failed to display its usual splendor in farewell, obscured by a trade wind squall line miles off to leeward, the only one they had seen in days. No one stood on the deck and gazed off to the western horizon. Instead they sat up forward around the fore hatch and silently watched their opponent sailing steadily onward ahead of them. No laughter or boasting about spending their prize money. The thirst was starting to hurt. The crew was growing quiet. Both Rork and Wake took note of it.

The whole crew on deck awaited the calculations of the noon sight and the subsequent position. The night and following morning had produced no change in the weather or the relative places of the vessels in the pursuit. The noon position would be the first new information available. From McDougall to Kane, the ship’s boy, they all waited and watched the after deck hatch for their captain and bosun to emerge from their conference in the cabin below.

“Well, sir, what do ye think?” Rork looked nervous.

Wake looked up from the table, holding down his navigation instruments with one hand and the miserably meager chart of the coast of Yucatan, Mexico, with the other. Everything on the table was threatening to go over to the deck from the gyrations of the schooner in the now beam seas.

“I think we should see land on the bow soon. Says here there are low sandy hills on the coast, and we should be close to a place called Cozumel. It’s a large island off the mainland. I’m pretty sure we are finally out of the damned current now and making good speed over the bottom.”

“Captain, I’ll be blessed by the saints above! ’Tis appearin’ that you were right as rain. Mexico it is. An’ now we’ll have ta deal with the slimy frog navy, if they show.”

“I hope not. We don’t need that. I just want to capture that bitch ahead of us and get some water ashore and leave for home.”

Rork didn’t show the shock of hearing his usually polite captain swear, but he felt it and knew it was a manifestation of the tension they all were feeling. The previous night his captain had made the final momentous decision to continue the pursuit. They were down to three casks of water, not even enough to last the voyage back to Key West. Capture the schooner or not, they were going to have to find water on this coast somewhere. That meant going ashore without permission in a country that was opposed to the Americans.

Wake knew he was in a perilous situation, both physically and politically. He had left his patrol area and endangered his crew and his ship. The only positive way out of this was an immediate capture of the other ship with a valuable cargo aboard. Wake resigned himself not to think about any repercussions, only about the enemy and the water.

The captain and bosun went up on deck and stood by the helm facing the crew that had assembled without being called. Normally, a captain would not brief a crew on the ship’s position or decision making. He would order, they would obey. But these were not normal times. These men were on the border of being sick from diminished water intake in the brutal tropical summer sun. And they soon might be faced with a fight for their lives in a naval battle with an unknown enemy. They deserved to know the situation. Wake’s voice was dry and raspy as he got right to the point.

“Men, we are off the coast of Mexico. We are going to capture that schooner ahead, one way or another. After we do, we will re-water somewhere on this coast. Right now we have enough water for three more days. Not enough to sail back, but enough to look for water here.

“Today we will sight the coast. Today we will get that ship. We will solve the riddle of this chase. We all saw her reception by the Spanish. There must be someone, or something, on her that was worth it to that schooner’s crew to flee this far. We’re going to find out what, and we’re going to do that today. Rest easy. We may well have to fight her soon.”

The crew said not a word. No emotion played on their faces to show their thoughts. They just turned away and went to their watch chores or off-watch rest. Rork’s face transformed from serious contemplation to his normal easy smile.

“Aye, Captain Wake. A rougher row to hoe we’ve not had, but this one will smooth out. I’ll see about getting some more rags aloft to catch this breeze an’ speed the little darlin’ up a bit.”

***

Three hours later they sighted a low blur ahead. Both vessels had borne off the wind slightly and were now rushing on a broad reach over the port quarter, heading more westerly. The blur started to stretch across the entire horizon, with a few bumps scattered along it. The news cheered the men, particularly the younger men who were new to the navy and had not sailed this far away into foreign waters.

The schooner ahead maintained a distance of around a half mile, which fluctuated periodically. McDougall stood by the foremast and eyed the other vessel from the moment land was spotted. Half an hour later he came aft, put a knuckled hand to his brow, and respectfully requested permission to speak to the captain. Rork walked over and joined them.

“Beggin’ ye’s pardon, Captain, but I’ve been a thinkin’ on that one over there. With our new point o’ sailin’, maybes we could alter course, ju’ a wee bit to windward, an’ I could get off a shot. We’d lose ground, sure as a whore smells rotten, sir. But not too much, I’d wager. What’ve we lost, sir?”

Wake nodded and glanced at Rork.

The bosun sighed. “Worth a try on the gun, sir. But McDougall, my good countryman, what would the bishop say o’ your blashemy against the fairer sex. Aye, methinks you’re wrong lad, for I once knew a trollop down Wexford way, in Rosslare to be precise, who smelled of roses from her sprit to her counter, an’ all between!”

The three of them broke into laughs. Even old sour McDougall chuckled, his face crinkled into an unaccustomed gap-toothed grin as he retorted to his brother Gael.

“Rork, you son o’ Eire, ye’ve got the advantage of youth upon me, lad. For I’m not able to even remember a trollop, rotten or sweet, so many years have passed since that pleasure was mine. So I’ll bow to your lordship’s wisdom on that one, an’ spare a laugh on it too!”

Laughter subsided to smiles, with the rest of the crew staring aft in curiosity at the three men. Not a few of them were smiling too at the sight of old McDougall showing humor during this most serious of times. Wake was grateful to both of the Irishmen for their ability to lighten the tension and return the focus of the crew to the enemy. McDougall soon had the gun crew searching the shot locker for the best specimen. The entire crew grasped the idea at hand and went to their stations for sail handling or gunnery.

The boy Kane at foremast lookout let out a squeaky shout. “Deck there! Her crew’s moving about. Somethin’s happenin’, but I don’ know what yet!”

Wake grabbed Rork’s arm. “Quick Rork, now before she does something! Head her up!”

“Aye, Captain. Head her up, lad. Stand by ta haul your sheets an’ lifts! Haul in!”

Immediately the St. James swerved to the left three points and headed farther up toward the eye of the wind. She quickly heeled over and picked up speed. Now they were crashing along, the wind over her deck increased, which made the noises of the sails and rigging louder also. Every man was intently eyeing McDougall and his deck gun crew. The old man was sighting along the barrel now, calmly issuing orders to his crew of six men to adjust the traverse and elevation of the gun. No one else was talking, though all were wishing he would get on with it and fire, for though they were going much faster on this point of sail, they were also heading slightly away from the other ship. It had to be done to free up the gun’s ability to fire forward since St. James had not altered course, the forward mast and rigging would have continued to mask the gun’s sights. But it was taking too long.

Boom!

Smoke covered the schooner for an instant before being blown away on the wind. Twenty-five minds willed the shot to go to the enemy ship. Twenty-five pairs of eyes never left the target. The splash was a satisfactory hundred yards to the starboard of the prey. A cheer of “Hurrah!” went up on the St. James as all hands waited to see what the other ship would do. This was when most blockade runners would heave to and accept their fate. But nothing happened.

“Bring her back down to the course and stay on her tail, Rork. McDougall, good shot, man. Make another one even better.”

As she came back down to her previous course and lost speed, the gun crew reloaded. McDougall got everyone ready and nodded to Rork.

The order was given again to head up into the wind, and once more the ship sped up and heeled over. This time the gunner didn’t need as long to aim, and the gun went off before most in the crew anticipated it.

Boom! . . . and another splash in line but two hundred yards too far aft of the target. It earned another cheer, this one more hoarse.

Kane shouted down from the foremast. “Deck there, sail bearing broad on the looward bow! On the horizon line. Comin’ out from shore. Schooner or lugger, sir.”

Wake didn’t care at this point about any other intruder in his battle. He wanted that ship.

“Keep firing, gunner!”

The gun crew reloaded as fast as they could, with McDougall slowing them down to do it properly. Rork surveyed the approaching ship from a perch in the starboard main shroud ratlines.

“I can see her, sir. Beating out from shore. Be a long while afore she’s out to us. By my reckon, we’re in open waters anyway, sir.”

Boom! Another cheer announced that McDougall had gotten closer.

Wake had to admit after this shot, however, the need to get St. James back on course behind the target to close the range again. This was all taking too long. They slowed down back on the original course as the gunners reloaded.

Kane yelled out again. “Deck there! There’s another one of ’em coming from that big point o’ land to port, sir! Ship four points on the port bow. Looks like a lugger rig, like we seen off’n Cuba, sir!”

The large point of land to port, still probably eight miles away, was Cozumel Island, according to Wake’s determinations. What looked like a point of land was actually an island. On it was the largest town on the coast. He now wondered if it also had a naval presence there. The sail coming from that direction could be seen from the main deck now. It was coming on fast downwind. The St. James had to capture that ship ahead now, before the others arrived to protect her.

Rork landed on the deck from aloft with a thud and strode over to his captain.

“Getting’ jus’ a wee bit interestin’ sir. A bit like the marriage party o’ a orange an’ a green Irish when the two families finally meet. Could be drinkin’. Could be fightin’. No way ta’ tell till you’re right in the middle!”

“Good God, Rork. How does Eire ever get along without you?”

“A wee bit more boring, sir!”

In spite of the situation, Wake laughed. He then told the helm to bring her up again. McDougall was ready and bent over his gun, sighting and waiting for the roll of the ship. For just the right moment . . .

Boom! . . . but no splash could be seen. Questioning looks at McDougall were met by a slight smile and an upraised hand and index finger, like a teacher requesting attention from his students.

Then they saw it. The wind had carried the sound away so that they could not hear it. But they all saw it and cheered wildly, jumping up and down on the deck and slapping the old man on the shoulders.

The mainsail of the other ship slowly ripped across its belly, with the leeward shrouds whipping around behind it. Soon the sail was severed all the way across from the luff to the leech, flapping thunderously like an enraged wounded animal. Forward of it, the foresail also showed damage, with a smaller tear on the leech where the shot must have passed through it also.

For several seconds the men of the St. James stood mesmerized by the destruction they had rendered. Rork soon put an end to that.

“Stand by, the boat’s crew! White, get your men and boat ready for boardin’!”

Wake ordered McDougall to reload with cannister shot and have several men with muskets ready on deck to cover the schooner as they approached. He was taking no chances with the other captain, who had already proven his mettle.

As they swept closer to the damaged vessel they saw a red flag hoist up to her main masthead. It shivered and then flew straight out in the wind: the red ensign of a British merchant ship. Figures swarmed around on her decks as they backwinded to the jib and hove her to, wallowing and waiting for the St. James to come up to her.

Wake stood by the helmsman and watched his crew as they went into their various evolutions. McDougall and his crew reloaded the deck gun and got the musket men ready. White and his boat crew started to sway the ship’s boat out on the fore gaff tackles, as Faber and the rest doused the foresail and readied the mainsail to come down. Rork turned to Wake.

“Request permission to lead the boardin’ party, sir.”

“Permission granted. Get her under way as soon as possible. I want to get out of here before those two arrive.”

Rork followed Wake’s gaze to the rapidly approaching ship at windward, and then the one farther away to leeward. The windward one looked to be a large lugger, as the lookout had said. No flag was yet shown on her. But she was heading directly for them and was only a mile or so off. Half an hour at the most, and she would be there. The one to leeward was still too far away to classify, but it was apparent that she was steering for them too.

Soon they were fifty yards to windward of the British vessel and hove to in the undulating seas, swaying out the boat. McDougall came aft.

“Sir, jus’ one wee thing. They haven’t surrendered proper like yet. Still got the limey ensign showin’. Want me to send ’em some lead an’ convince ’em to lower that damned red rag?”

Wake couldn’t believe it. McDougall was right. According to the rules of war, they hadn’t properly surrendered. He could legally fire into them. Rork scratched his head and lurched over to the shrouds, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Schooner there! This is the United States Ship St. James, and you are captured! Properly surrender this instant by haulin’ down that ensign!”

A British-sounding voice came back across the water from a gray-haired man standing at the mainmast by the tangle of the destroyed sail and rigging. “This is a British ship, the Wendy of Devon, and we do not surrender. We’ve done nothing wrong to surrender for. You fired into an innocent ship. You will pay, sir. You will surely pay when London and their lordships of the admiralty hear of this outrage!”

It got very quiet on the St. James. The bustle of the crew doing their tasks stopped, and all of them looked to their captain. Rork turned around and faced Wake.

“Orders, sir? Shall we board her?”

The cramps in his stomach spread to Wake’s bowels. Nerves in his skin were twitching. Everyone was watching him. He set his jaw, clenched both fists, and fought to overcome the urge to turn and run from this disaster. There was nowhere to run to anyway. There was only one decision to make.

“Rork, tell them we are boarding, and if they show any resistance they will be shot.”

When that message was roared over to the other ship, the activity in Wake’s crew resumed. Soon the boat and crew, all eight of them armed to the teeth, were on their way across the rough water. Everyone in the crew was watching their progress, except fourteen-year-old Kane, still on lookout at the foremast crosstrees, who brought their attention back to windward.

“Deck there! The lugger to windward has sent up an ensign, sir! Don’t know it. Red, white and blue stripes. Big stripes, sir.”

Wake looked to windward and saw the big lugger, now a half mile away, sailing fast with battle ensign streaming and two deck guns manned and ready. She slid downwind ahead of St. James and rounded up close to the other schooner, which was now being boarded by Rork and his party. As the lugger, as big as St. James, came up into the wind, Wake saw the ensign fluttering out astern of the mainsail.

It was the tricolor of the French Navy. . . .

The sailors around Wake grew hushed again, as their captain gripped the pinrail by the mainmast and stared at the French deck guns aimed directly at him. A commotion on the prize vessel caught his attention and he shifted his gaze over to Rork’s boarding party.

He could see that they were rounding up the crew and herding them forward. Rork and another man, Jackson it looked like, were yelling something to the water on the far side of the schooner, out of Wake’s sight. Jackson was raising his musket and aiming at something in the water, stopped from firing apparently by Rork’s uplifted hand. Faber called Wake’s attention back to the Frenchman off their bow.

“Sir, what’ll we do about her? Looks like they’re sayin’ somethin’, but I don’t parley the French lingo.”

Faber was correct, the officers on the afterdeck of the lugger were excitedly yelling something toward the St. James, but Wake couldn’t understand French either. Now the officers were pointing at something in the water, in the same direction that Rork and Jackson were. Some action was taking place on the far side of the enemy ship, where the French and the boarding party could see it, but Wake could not. He was on the point of swearing aloud in frustration when Mason, up on the foredeck, yelled out.

“Escapin in’ a boat, sir. Look at ’em! There’s a couple of ’em getting’ away! Wan’ us ta shoot ’em, sir? I think we could get ’em from here!”

Suddenly, a small boat was seen emerging from behind the captured vessel, the three men in it rowing madly in the direction of the French ship. Wake didn’t need command of the French language to know that the Frenchmen were cheering on the escapees and taunting the Americans.

“Should we fire, sir?” asked Mason again. Wake wasn’t sure what to do at this point, but decided against using the guns.

“No! Wait for now!”

Wake strode aft to the binnacle box and got his telescoping glass. Focusing on the fleeing boat, he examined the men in it. None of them appeared armed. One was black-skinned and another was white with flaming red hair and beard. The older one, on the after pair of oars, was the closest to the St. James and the easiest to see. They were getting very close to the French ship, and Wake knew they were safe under the French Navy’s protection. As the boat came alongside the lugger, the red-haired man stood up and made an obscene gesture toward the Americans, throwing the French crew into a pandemonium of wild shrieking and yelling. Wake could see the French officers laughing. The man in the stern of the boat, dressed better than the other two, immediately pulled the red-haired one down in a disapproving manner. That older man looked familiar to Wake, but as he was trying to place him in his mind Faber tugged his arm.

“Sir, I said Rork is trying to yell over to us, sir. Oh, here comes our boat.”

The St. James’ s boat was returning with only three men in her. Rork, still on the British schooner, was trying to yell something and was pointing to the boat alongside the French lugger. With all the noise from the Frenchmen, Wake could not make out what Rork was saying. Faber brought Wake’s attention back to the lugger.

“Sir, looks like they’re leavin’.”

The French vessel, her jibs starting to fill as she swung around, was hoisting the small boat aboard. Wake could see the older man from the escape boat standing on the lugger’s afterdeck with her officers, all of them looking right at Wake. Rork’s bellowing was continuing from the prize vessel, but Wake could only catch part of it. He could tell Rork was upset and was pointing to the departing lugger.

“ . . . onders! . . . onders!”

And then it came to him. He couldn’t believe it. Rork was yelling ‘Saunders’. Instantly he turned his glass on the lugger and focused on the men at the stern, still standing together laughing. He saw him and recognized him now: John Saunders, one of the most notorious blockade runners in Florida, Cuba, and the Bahamas.

Saunders had first come to Wake’s attention in ’63 off the coast of Sanibel Island on the west coast of Florida. He had deceived Wake then and made a close escape through a false story. Wake had last seen him in Havana the year before and had instigated the Spanish authorities to capture Saunders and destroy his shipping organization in Cuba. However, somehow Saunders had escaped the Havana dungeon and gotten out of Cuba, for Wake had later heard of him in the Abaco Islands of the Bahamas. That had been six months ago, and no later intelligence of his whereabouts was known. Until now.

From the demeanor of Saunders it was clear that he recognized Wake also. By his enthusiastic reception, it was also clear that Saunders was known to the French on this coast. Suddenly several events of the last few days became clear. The Spanish had recognized Saunders’ vessel too, but without the warmth of the French. Perhaps he had replaced his Havana depot with one in Mexico, guarded over by the French Navy. Who knew what they had stumbled upon? Wake leaned against the mast and kept the glass focused on the man who had evaded him in three, now four, countries. He still couldn’t believe it.

“Sir, Bosun Rork presents his respects and has a message for you, sir!”

White was alongside in their ship’s boat and calling up to the captain. Wake reluctantly lowered the glass and nodded at White as the lugger started to diminish in the distance, sailing downwind toward the other ship still approaching.

“Sir, Bosun Rork says to tell ya that there was a fella named Saunders, said you’d know the one, sir, who’s on that limey schooner when we’s boarded her. Said ta tell ya, sir, that the Saunders fella and two others, a negra an’ a limey fella, jumped inta a boat an’ rowed like hell over to the froggy navy ship. Did it afore we knew it, sir. Couldn’t stop ’em, sir. Bosun Rork looks powerful mad about it, sir. Said he knew the bastard too, an’ thought he was dead. Said he was a Reb runner ya got once down in Havany.”

Though he already knew all of this, Wake suddenly felt exhausted.

“Very well, White. Did the bosun say anything about the men you did manage to capture? And what about the ship? Any cargo?”

“Aye, sorry about that, sir. I was gonna get ta that part of it. Bosun Rork wants ya ta come see what’s aboard of her. Says there’s mun . . . munitions, I thinks it is, sir. Guns an’ the like. Said you’d be pleased on that!”

Wake looked around his ship. McDougall and the gun crew were still at quarters and ready to fight. Others in the crew, like Mason, were still armed with long guns. Each of them appeared confused at what was transpiring and were looking at Wake. He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t sure at all himself what was happening.

Feeling forty years older, he lowered himself down the side and into the boat in the rough seas. White’s crew rowed him over to where Rork stood waiting for him. The bosun helped him board the schooner. Rork looked as tired as Wake felt. His appearance reminded Wake that they were down to about two casks of water.

“Welcome, sir. Guess you know by now. That bastard John Saunders was aboard her an’ got away in the boat. Didn’t know in time to stop ’em, sir. By the time we saw ’em, they were up to that Frenchy lugger sir, an’ the lads surely would’ve hit her if we’d fired. Decided you’d not want that kind o’ war started, sir! Sorry as hell, sir.”

“All right, Rork. What did you find on her? White was saying something about guns.”

“Aye, guns there are, sir! We made the jackpot o’ the derby here, sir! They’re all laid out below in munitions crates, jus’ as pretty as you please. Limey scum here was takin’ ’em into Florida so’s the Rebs could kill some more o’ us. Arrogant limey pile o’ dung who says he’s the captain got quiet when we found them beauties, sir. He’s as silent as a whore in church now, sir!”

“Please tell about the men found aboard her.”

Rork told about the seven men left in the crew who were on deck when he captured the schooner. Four were British Bahamian citizens with their papers, two were probably Cuban, and one sounded like a rebel American. None resisted. The Cubans and American had no papers. Rork had not had time to search the vessel yet, what with all the confusion.

“Rork, is there any water aboard her?”

“No time ta see yet. We’ll look an’ see right now, sir.”

A search of the Wendy, for that was her real name, revealed that she had ten casks of water stowed in her hold, next to the guns. An excited howl went up from White when he found and counted the casks. Rork made him check each one for purity. They all seemed potable. Yelling the news over to the St. James produced cheers in reply. For the first time in several days Wake felt as if they could make it out of this predicament in good shape.

By this time the sun was starting to descend, but still two or three hours from its set. Even with the drifting from being hove to, the two ships were still several miles off the Mexican coast. Wake decided it was time to get off this coast and sail away before the French got any ideas regarding infringement of their sovereignty and returned. Wake called Rork and White to him at the stern of the prize and gave his orders.

“Rork, you are appointed the prize master. Keep five men with you to sail her. Now, first, get the prisoners over to the St. James. I want them shackled on the main deck. Next, get some water over there. We all stay on short rations. After that, I want you ready to sail. We need to leave before the French get ideas. Can you jury-rig that mains’l?”

“Captain, we’ll get her sailin’ straight away, quick as a rabbit from the hounds.”

“Very good. Oh, and search the cabins and every space for any intelligence immediately. I want everything accomplished by sunset. As soon as all that’s done, we set sail to the nor’east and Cabo San Antonio. Any questions?”

Neither petty officer raised any.

“Then let’s get things done here and get away from this damned coast and those Frenchies!”

Rork nodded his head in agreement. “Aye, sir. We’ll get that done in a pig’s wink! You’ll be lookin’ good ta the high Admiral himself when ya bring in this darlin’ as a prize to Key West. Not ta mention the fine bit o’ prize money she’ll fetch on her sale.”

Exhausted as he was, Wake had to smile at the optimism of his bosun. “Rork, right you are. Now all we have to do is actually get there!”

***

Wake had seen the island of Key West come over the horizon many times during his year in Florida, but no landfall was as welcome as this one. It had been three days of hard sailing, with the fair wind and current boosting them along at speeds over the bottom that Wake found hard to believe. Now the famous Stream was helping them, and the assistance provided by that river in the ocean gave Wake the fastest sailing he had ever experienced, sometimes up to eleven knots. St. James was moving so fast that he constantly checked his celestial fixes, thinking that an error had been made.

Even with the tremendous speed of the schooner in the perfect weather and current conditions, Wake dared not rescind the water rationing. Since the issue beer and rum had given out, the cask water was all they had. The water had been rationed to all hands equally, even the prisoners, and only four casks were left. It had been very close.

The search of the Wendy had revealed some papers, including a letter from a Mr. Thomas Clyde of Nassau that was addressed to a Mr. R. Jomeiene, location not written. Clyde was introducing John Saunders to Jomeiene and commending him as a good contact for future transactions, the content of which was also not explained. Other papers had to do with the registry of the schooner in Nassau and a bill of lading for lumber from Andros Island in the Bahamas to Havana, dated a month earlier. No papers mentioning the rifles were found. Jomeiene sounded like a French name to Wake, though he wasn’t sure. It all started to fit.

The rifles were new British Enfields complete with bayonets. Ten were packed in straw in each crate, and twenty crates were stowed in the main hold, enough to arm two or three companies of Confederates. There was much speculation among the men and the petty officers about the destination of the rifles, but no absolute proof was found.

As the ships sailed east toward Key West, there was also much speculation on the value of the Wendy and her cargo. The conjecture was in the end settled by McDougall, who listened to all this for two days and finally said, in a voice that was quiet and deliberate, that he thought she was worth every bit of three thousand dollars and would have been worth more if they hadn’t had to fire into her. He further offered the opinion that the cargo of rifles was worth about four hundred dollars to the United States government and three to four times that to the government of the rebel states. After McDougall had delivered his considered opinion, the discussions on both ships turned to the ways in which a sailor could spend his share of that money in a port like Key West. The debates culminated in a general consensus that the purveyors of rum and women in Key West, and there were many, would be as happy as the sailors of the St. James to see the Wendy arrive in port.

In fact, the only people who would not be happy at the sight of the St. James and the Wendy sailing into the harbor at Key West were the seven prisoners shackled and lashed to the pinrail of the foremast. None of them would talk to Wake beyond stating that they were a legitimate crew with a legitimate cargo bound from the British Bahamas to French Mexico and were the victims of a piratical act by the U.S. Navy. None would talk about Saunders’ escape or even why he was aboard the British schooner. The captain, an aptly named stick of a man called Reeks, repeatedly told Wake that the British Consul would make an immediate protest and soon Wake would be the one in custody.

Each day both vessels hove to, and Rork came across by ship’s boat to compare both dead reckoning and celestial calculations with his captain. For several months Wake had been teaching Rork the art of fixing one’s position by celestial observations and the mathematical tables, but the bosun wasn’t yet confident enough to rely upon his own work on a long voyage. Wake and Rork reviewed their daily positions, and the course to Key West in case of separation, but thankfully that possibility never came to pass.

Mid-morning two days later, both ships were sailing up the main channel to the island of Key West. Passing the brown reefs that opened like deadly jaws off both sides of the channel, the schooner and her prize entered the jade waters close by the harbor. The deep blue waters of the Stream were behind them now. The dangers here were not from huge waves but from those jagged reefs just below the surface. The wind became light and confused out of the northeast as they approached, requiring the vessels to short tack up the final leg of the channel. Wake was glad the wind had held until they had found the island. The cask water would not have lasted if they had drifted in light airs out on the Stream.

St. James and the Wendy finally arrived in the harbor with the crews listening to the melancholy sound of the Fort Taylor regimental band playing the “Annie Laurie,” which it had recently learned and played at its weekly Saturday concerts for the town.

Carter, concentrating on steering at the helm, felt so elated at returning to Key West and its pleasures that he spoke to his commander without being asked a question first.

“Must be Saturday if the band’s aplayin’, don’t cha think?”

This breech of naval etiquette startled Wake, who was equally focused on Carter’s steering, but he took it as a sign that the morale of the crew was lifting at their safe return. He didn’t reprimand Carter, but in his men’s apparent joy Wake did wonder silently if the crew had ever doubted their captain’s ability to get them back alive. He knew that their captain certainly had had those doubts.

Glancing aft toward the prize a hundred yards astern of them, he saw that Rork was matching their every move at the almost same moment, tack for tack. The two ships presented a beautiful sight to the people ashore as they glided quietly up the channel in unison, like well-trained wild animals performing in a circus.

Rork, smiling his big grin, leaned out from the main shrouds of the Wendy and waved at Wake. Smiling and waving in return, Wake wondered how Rork had felt in those gut-wrenching moments with the French guns ready to blast into them several days ago. Rork never showed fear and Wake was envious of that strength within him, remembering how his own bowels had cramped into knots at that terrifying moment. He wondered if his fear had shown to the crew around him.

“Course, sir? We’re at the anchorage.”

Carter’s voice brought him back to the present and the tricky job of anchoring two ships in the crowded area off the naval docks.

“Yes, well, Carter, steer for that steamer over there and we’ll anchor astern of her. Luff her up when we get abeam of Tift’s building.”

“Aye aye, sir. Luff when abeam o’ Tift’s building ashore.”

Faber, standing with the anchor detail on the foredeck, called aft to his captain.

“Ready with the anchor, sir. Ready with the jibs an’ fores’l.”

Wake nodded his acknowledgment and replied. “Very good, Faber. When we pass the steamer and the Tift building ashore, we’ll luff up and drop the hook.”

As Wake gestured to Rork to follow their lead, his eye caught the flash of a glass reflected in the sunlight coming from the squadron’s headquarters building. Turning to examine the spot where the flash glared, Wake saw a man in the second-story window with a telescope to his face. It was aimed at the St. James. Faber called again from the bow, while stepping over one of the prisoners laying on the deck.

“Abeam now, sir.”

Carter brought the helm over and the schooner swung to windward. The ship started losing steerageway as she glided forward, all her sails flapping a protest at being deprived of the wind. As she edged closer toward the steamer just two hundred yards off their bow, the time came for the anchor to be cast.

“Let go the anchor!”

At the captain’s order the men on the foredeck cast off the lashing holding the anchor to the gunwale and a splash was heard. Soon the schooner was drifting sternways as the crew paid out the rode through the hawsehole on the starboard bow.

Behind them the Wendy was doing the same evolution and falling back on her own hook. Wake couldn’t help a smile when he thought of the unknown official in the window watching a naval schooner and her prize coming in from sea and providing such a professional show as that just done. The man in the window was probably the admiral or the chief of his staff—Wake couldn’t tell at this distance, but that window was the admiral’s. Whoever it was was probably envious of the commander of such a lovely vessel that had the freedom to go to sea and do what the navy was there to do. Wake thought it must be hell to sit in there and watch others bring in captured enemy ships.

“Holding firm, sir!” came from the foredeck as Faber watched the men belaying the rode on the sampson posts. The lazy coils of the rode were thrown down on the prisoners who were still shackled by the fore pinrail. Wake called to the men at the foremast.

“Douse the jibs and foresail.”

Immediately the sails slid down the forestays and the forward mast. Wake turned to the men at the mainmast.

“Lower the peak and halliard. Douse the mainsail, men.”

The quiet beauty of the two ships tacking in unison up the channel was now replaced by the swearing and grunting of both crews as they fought to control the heavy canvas along the booms and bowsprits. Furling the sails under the eyes of the squadron called for special care, and the men of the schooner and her prize made a proper harbor stow of the sails, with which no admiral could find fault. Twenty minutes later, when all was completed, Faber came aft. He glanced ashore at the admiral’s offices. The flash of the glass was gone from the window.

“Said an’ done, Captain. They’re all a jealous o’ the ol’ St. James today! Shall I have the gig swung out for you?”

“Yes, Faber. And send a message to Bosun Rork. My compliments on a fine display of seamanship, and I’d be pleased if he would ready himself to accompany me to report to the admiral in half of an hour.”

Faber’s eyes crinkled into a slight smile but his voice betrayed no emotion as he replied and turned away, continuing to oversee the many chores that needed to be done every time a ship came to anchor.

Wake surveyed the harbor and thought about his upcoming meeting with the admiral. The capture of the Wendy, and her neatly packed instruments of death, was a significant victory in this squadron. But the method of that capture would be open to debate at the least, and possibly censure or even worse discipline. Once again Wake went through everything in his mind, and once again he decided that he had made the correct decisions at the times he had made them.

He touched the scar on the side of his face as he leaned against the railing and looked at his prize floating docilely in the harbor. He thought of all it had taken to get her and knew it was worth it. And very shortly he would find out if the man with the glass in that window would agree.